by Randy Ross
He tells me about a mutual friend, Eli, whose wife of ten years caught him in bed with another guy. Since Eli’s little coming-out event, none of our female friends will talk to him, and our male friends are afraid his gayness might rub off.
“I don’t give a shit,” Abe says. “I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s staying with us till he figures out what to do. Amy can bitch all she wants.”
Maybe the measure of loyalty is more than a few e-mails.
“That definitely qualifies as fucked-up,” I say. “How is everyone else doing?”
“Soon after you left, the shit hit the turbine. Lenny’s been having a tough time. His mother is his only close relative left and she’s on her way out. And the miserable game is getting more miserable: Women can smell the desperation on him.”
I sniff my wool pullover: It’s either desperation, rat piss, or raw garlic.
Abe continues: “As for me, sometimes I think Amy and I are just one fight away from Match.com. But for better or worse, I’m going to stick it out. And now Rachel’s got Arturo. We’re all drifting apart. You said you were getting tired of Boston. Maybe you should make a move before you end up like Lenny.”
I say nothing, but think: I already made a move.
After we finish our martinis, Abe puts on a pink ski hat and swats the pom-poms out of his face. “By the way, congrats on pulling off the trip. You made us all look like chicken shits. I mean that in a good way.”
Out in the parking lot, I watch Abe zip off in his new Acura, “the Jap Jew-canoe.” In six months, my Civic will be old enough to drink and buy cigarettes.
I sit on the hood; the sheet-metal winces and the cold seeps through my pants. A subfreezing breath flares in my nostrils. The air is dry, odorless, and clean. Winter in Boston. This is the time of year when smells hibernate, insomniacs sleep, and, according to DATES.XLS, I have the best luck with women. I feel my gloved thumb and forefinger settle into a little OK sign.
I haven’t seen Ricki in two years, since our visit to Moody. I recall the fight that led to our brief foray into therapy.
It was a Sunday morning in bed. I was giving her a massage and working her glutes, when a cheddary, slaughterhouse odor slipped out.
“Ooops,” she said. “Let me go wash up.”
A toilet flush, a shower spray.
She hopped back in bed, “I’m ready, Doctor Feel Good.”
From a fetal position I said, “The doctor isn’t feeling so good.”
“Because of, what, a little body odor?”
“I think I had some bad scrod for dinner last night.”
“You know you’ve got some issues, bucko.”
“I thought you liked me because of my issues.”
“Not this one. You’re the only guy I ever dated who never farts or poops.”
“Babies and puppies poop. Cows and people shit.”
“Thank you, Marlin Perkins. When do you take a shit? Do you wait till you go home? Is this why we never go away on vacation?”
At her place, I always evacuated everything that needed evacuating before my bedtime shower, the water running for maximum privacy.
“You’re right,” I say. “I never fart or shit. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t either.”
“What? You think little angels come down and carry my farts away?”
“Can we change the subject?”
“Why? It’s a natural bodily function like eating or sex.”
“Did you ever touch your poops when you were little?”
“What kind of weird question is that?”
“Never mind. How about if I fix you a nice bowl of bran, then leave, and you can blast out a nice shit the size of an anaconda, something worthy of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.”
A week later, we saw Moody. A week after that, we were done.
Over the years, I’ve parsed the fight for keywords and subtext and identified the following: never vacation, inflexible, germaphobe.
But I’ve just returned from a sixteen-week trip, drank wine made of snake piss, and wiped my ass with my fingers. She said she’s going to apologize. Major surgery can humble a person. Maybe she’s finally out of debt. Maybe her new medication has mellowed her. People change.
As for me, I’ll be less critical and stop with the ambivalence, teasing, and obsessing about her body.
Ricki could be my antidote to the Dark Place. I won’t have to move to New York.
We’ll grow old together, pick each other up after colonoscopies. I’ll be her next of kin, her safe room, and she’ll be mine. Instead of unreliable friends and family, Ricki and I will have each other. If she wants, we can get married. She’ll move in, split the mortgage, save me 7K a year. We can even have separate bedrooms or separate apartments like celebrities. Life with Ricki will never be dull.
We meet for drinks at her favorite spot, the Pinko Lounge in Harvard Square. When I arrive, she’s at the bar. Her dark hair is now shoulder length. She’s wearing a butter-colored blazer, maybe to hide a few pounds. So what? At least it’s not a black blazer.
I sneak up behind her, kiss her on the cheek, and sit down.
“Hey,” she says.
The space between her front teeth is gone. Instead of the usual shrapnel in each ear, she’s wearing a large hoop the size of a diaphragm. For the first time, I notice her earlobes, tiny grapes. She seems softer, sharp edges smoothed.
I think of a story she used to tell about her brothers who would come home from football practice, yell “gas attack,” pin nine-year-old Ricki to the shag carpet, and hold their sweaty jock straps over her face. I think of Harriet and Myrna. Something else we share.
Ricki checks me out: black dress shoes, black jeans, Bengal-striped shirt, silvery chest hair peeking out of my opened collar, the Guillaume of Paris look.
“So, you’re looking decent enough,” she says. “Maybe a little filled out. Don’t people usually lose weight when they travel? How was the trip?”
“Decent enough. Saw some weird stuff. Ate some weird stuff.”
She does a double-take on my left wrist. “That watch is kind of big.”
“This old thing? Got it on a Bangkok street corner. It’s a Pad Thai Philippe.”
“Let me see that.” She grabs my forearm, holds it close to her face. I feel her breath warm on my hand. “Patek Philippe,” she says. “Must have cost five grand. You know what they say: Big watch, big . . .”
“Big safety-deposit box. My Uncle Heshie gave it to me.”
“The Jappy New York doctor with the hooker girlfriend? Please give him my disregards.”
Ricki squeezes my hand and laughs. I laugh with her and squeeze back.
Across the bar, a guy with gray-coiffed hair is sitting by himself. He’s wearing an open-collared shirt with silvery chest hair peeking out. The bartender is chatting with him.
“You still doing graphic design and teaching pilates?” I ask Ricki.
“Yup, and I cleaned up my credit card debt and hired a financial planner. I’m a big girl now.”
I feel a stirring where my money belt used to be. She moves a set of salt-and-pepper shakers around on the bar like chess pieces.
“So you made it around the world intact. Tell the truth: Were you offended by my e-mails?” Ricki asks.
“Well, your note about counterphobia was on the money. You know how I’m afraid of heights? In South Africa, I went bungee jumping off a bridge three times as high as the Empire State Building. One guy who jumped crapped in his trousers.” “I know, I read your blog. I believe I wrote that you are insane. Or if I didn’t, let me confirm that now.”
“Flatterer. I bet you say that to all the guys.”
“Only the cute nut jobs.”
I glance over at the gray-coiffed guy sitting alone. Tonight, I’m not that guy.
Ricki moves the salt-and-pepper shakers side by side.
“By the way, I was sorry to hear about Wiener the dachshund,” I say. “And what about your surgery? Are you OK
?”
She chooses this moment to take off her jacket.
“I think the surgery went well. What do you think?”
My eyes take a few seconds to adjust. The room seems dimmer and then brighter. My deprived stomach rumbles. I hear a loud clang; someone must have given the bartender an impressive tip.
“I went up two cup sizes,” she says.
Her breasts are high and tight. Cleavage slices into her black T-shirt. I imagine unhooking her and being consumed airbag-style.
I’m not sure of the etiquette in this situation. Am I supposed to look? Comment? Squeeze the merchandise?
My Score Like a Pro book advises never to make a big deal of a woman’s appearance.
“You look great,” I say in a benign tone appropriate for complimenting a new hairstyle.
“I don’t know. I think I should have gotten a smaller size. I feel like Betty Boop.”
She adjusts the right one with two hands. “They still kind of hurt.”
There is an awkward silence. We both drink. Then I say, “What did you want to apologize for?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she says.
“Your e-mail said you wanted to apologize for something.”
“You must have me confused with one of your sluts.”
I know I should just let the comment pass, show I’ve changed, but I can’t. I take out my phone to search for Ricki’s message.
She sighs.
Just like old times.
The guy in the gray coif discusses the winter weather with the bartender in a voice loud enough for us to hear. Ricki leans over and cuts into their conversation: “All you people who whine about the cold should move out. This is fucking New England.”
“So I hear,” says the guy.
The bartender looks at Ricki, at me, says nothing, and hands us our check.
“Can you get this one, Burns? The financial planner put me on an austerity budget and I have to pee.”
I glance at the gray-coiffed guy sitting by himself sipping a snifter with a few coffee beans adrift in it. He looks content. Heshie looked content. I recall one of Moody’s droppings of wisdom: If you want to be content, stay single. If you don’t want to be lonely, get married.
When Ricki returns, I look deep into her eyes for some clue as to how to proceed. I sense a disturbance, an electrical storm, and imagine her brain cells flashing and twitching and jumping like herring being chased by a large predator. I want to be that predator. My thoughts are interrupted when she stands up abruptly.
“Good to see you, Burns. Let’s do this again.”
Without thinking, I say: “Let’s have dinner at my place Saturday night. I’ll make a Cambodian dish, Moon Bong, Prawn Long.”
“Only if you promise not to mix your food together like a four-year-old.”
“It’s a stir fry, already mixed.”
We hug. I feel them against me intent, urgent. I don’t think about the past or the future.
As we put on our coats to leave, I glance down at the bar: The salt-and-pepper shakers are gone.
For Saturday’s dinner, I defrost one of Heshie’s porterhouse steaks, cube and marinate it, and open the Grey Goose.
Ricki shows up thirty minutes late. She stomps the snow off her boots onto my newly refinished hardwood floor and hands me a box of chocolates. I flinch.
“For dessert,” she says. “Relax, a little chocolate never killed anybody. Hey, did you see the weather report? Snow, heavy at times, blizzard conditions, a real nor’easter.”
“And if you don’t like winter, get the fuck out of New England,” I say.
We high-five.
I take her shearling coat. Underneath she’s wearing skinny jeans and a low-necked shirt with exposed lacy straps stretched to their wits’ end. Her lips are wet with balm. She’s smirking as if she has something to tell me. I imagine her hands on the back of my head steering my mouth to hers.
I make us each a huge martini, dip a pinky in my drink, and dab behind my ears. Ricki is busy looking around my apartment.
“Burns, you finally got rid of that seascape painting. Good move.”
She laughs. I don’t.
“Nice toilet-seat covers. You didn’t get a sex change in Bangkok, did you?”
I let her comment drift by.
After dinner, a drink on the couch, where we first made love on our third date, after the escapade in the theater bathroom. There’s a long silence, a good silence. We are content.
She moves her martini glass around the coffee table like a chess piece. I look into her eyes again. They’re calm, no disturbances. Maybe she’s finally forgiven me, ready to move on. I recall what she once said about wanting one guy, forever, ashes in the same urn.
Forever suddenly sounds like a long time. I imagine a sperm whale, a giant squid around its neck, being dragged to the sea floor. A breath lodges in my chest. My hands are not shaking but they feel like they could be.
Ricki reaches for a chocolate, her shirt rises, a swell of skin, a little pooch belly. She bites into something dark and cream-filled. Not good for the girlish figure.
There’s a tingling behind my eyes, in my stomach, caffeine overload but I don’t drink coffee. The sea floor is coming up fast.
I observe my feelings of ambivalence and claustrophobia and try to imagine them floating by like dead leaves, tampon applicators, and six-pack rings.
No such luck.
A prickly, crawling sensation begins on my arms, spreads to my legs, my feet, synapses firing nonstop.
“Are you OK?” Ricki is looking into my eyes.
“A little jet-lagged.”
“Let me test drive the new toilet-seat cover,” she says. “Maybe it’s time to bust out an anaconda.” She laughs. I try to laugh. While she’s in the bathroom, I finish my martini and make another batch for us. My hands are now shaking.
A toilet flushes, a sink runs.
Back at the couch, I’m seated and she stands before me, my face is inches from the new breasts. I picture them pink, slick, and frisky, like newborn piglets. On her lips, a fresh coat of balm, a smirk, anticipation, invitation. I pull her to me and burrow nose-deep, earthy and woody, soft and warm. Her hands cup my ears. Then I feel a sharp yank.
“Burns! What the fuck are you doing?”
Lodged breaths and no words. My mind doubles over. I gasp for air.
“After all the bullshit you put me through, did you really think I’d sleep with you again, ever? Do you think I’m insane? Some kind of psycho masochist?”
I’m searching for a response when something detonates deep inside me. I bear down, grimace, but a silent garlic fart still manages to escape.
“Ooops,” is all I can say.
A week later, I’m sitting in Moody’s waiting room looking out the window. The snow is gone and the ground is gray and muddy. Bare trees scratch a low sky. My stomach is idling, a slow rumble. I’m tired, twitchy, and foggy from the diet or last night’s Percocet.
Moody greets me with a handshake and I follow him down the hall to his office. I’ve been walking this same route for ten years. But today, a room is cordoned off, plastic sheets hang from the ceiling, and a crew of paint-spattered men paces, drinks coffee, and thinks big thoughts. I imagine a plaque: “This addition paid for by Randall Burns.”
In his office, Moody sits. I sit. He pulls out my file.
“I saw Ricki for the first time in two years and she kicked me in the balls,” I say.
“Literally?”
“Figuratively. She was the only friend who wrote me while I was gone. She said she started on antidepressants and wanted to apologize. She said she wanted to see me when I got home. Here I take a trip around the world looking for the woman of my dreams and by the time I get to Australia I think, wow, she’s been in Boston the whole time. So when I get back, we meet for drinks, and were having a nice flirty time. Then she shows me her new boob job. I think: My welcome-back present? Two nights later, she comes over for dinn
er, low-cut everything, tits hanging out. We drink. We eat. And then I make a move. She claims she’s shocked, says no fucking way in hell, like I’m the one who’s insane. I thought she had changed. I thought I had changed. Maybe I am insane.”
Moody reaches for his yellow pad
My thoughts come to a mental fork: I could reach for my little notepad and get into it with Moody, or I could keep talking and avoid a pissing match.
“Anyway I’m over it now and I’m thinking of calling Karen, the cheerful, stable one I dated awhile back. Remember her? Every week I’d come in wanting to break up with her and you’d say, ‘Just give it another week.’ She wasn’t edgy, but she was OK. The sex was OK. She was nice enough.”
I anticipate an encouraging Buddhist-like response about embracing life’s possibilities and sitting with boredom and discomfort.
Moody stops scribbling and looks up at me. “You always find this type of woman dull and never connect with them. Why is this time going to be different?”
I lean forward in my seat and look him in the eye. “Doctor Moody, I just spent four months traveling the world, met some women, and had weird, short, depressing encounters with them. I realized all my relationships have been weird, short, and depressing. This trip has changed me. I’m ready for something different. To settle.
“I’ve had time to think. My intimacy issues? I get it. Life is about connecting with other people. Real connections, real relationships that deepen over time.
“My commitment issues? I can commit. I had the same job, same friends, and same car for fifteen years. That’s longer than most marriages.
“My issues with women? Maybe I don’t need a woman to be crazy and exciting all the time. I’m done with the fish theory and that stupid spreadsheet.
“For a chance at a real relationship, maybe with Karen, I’ll change. I’ll be on time. I’ll buy her flowers. I’ll call her every day. I’ll remember her birthday, her friends’ birthdays, her friends’ names. I’ll listen, really listen when she whines. I’ll stay overnight after sex. I’ll give her a corner of my closet.
“I’m tired of being chronically single. I’m sick of online dating. My friend Abe just got married and Rachel is on her way.